Candyland
by tinyvoice
Summary: Trowa is at a boring party until he sees an intriguing character (cliche, I know, bear with me) I assure you, it's at least mildly entertaining. (R rating was for implied situations and impure thoughts)


Disclaimer: GW doesn't belong to me. That's tragic, isn't it?

Story:

It looked like Candyland.

Ofcourse it would.

It was a costume party.

It wasn't even Halloween.

That never stopped anybody.

He was only there since Duo asked him to come. He'd been there roughly an hour. It was long enough, he figured, to fulfill his amicable obligation to his long time friend.

By this time, he'd already seen the same jester wandering around as if he were on loop at least eleven times in the past thirty minutes. Bored, he took another despairing look at his quartz face watch and decided that the time had come.

He vacated his semi-comfy niche on the couch and went out in search of Duo to tell him that he was leaving. Ofcourse, he could always call him since Duo had a cell, and the mansion, obviously, would have a ground line. However, it seemed a little more than corny and pathetic to do that. He wouldn't lose face, even to Duo.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and sliced through masses of garishly dressed people. Some invited him to converse, others cut to the chase and made bare passes at him, sometimes even tugging at his favorite flannel shirt. He shrugged them off roughly. Everyone was either smashed or nearing the boozey nirvana and wouldn't remember his rudeness the next day.

After swamping himself on the first floor and not finding even a hair belonging to his aforementioned friend, he began to plod his way up one side of the circular staircase. People stumbled past and almost into him unable to gauge the distance between each stair or each person. Whichever, they were relatively annoying. It seemed like the party was just raining drunkards.

At the summit of the stair, Trowa could continue no further.

This was an "absolutely no ladies" party, right?

Thusly, that meant that he was staring agape at the most lovely man he'd ever seen in his life.

The apple of his eye stood poised at the rail looking below at the bodies and bodies milling around and mingling. His expression expressed nothing. He could probably have been fed-exed to a doll shop and set up in the main window. Not one person would be able to tell that he was any different than his porcelain, plastic, or fleshy latex sisters. Hell, he was even dressed for it from the silk around his neck to the mary janes on his feet. Classic gothic lolita.

As if sensing Trowa's intense stare, his head turned and regarded him squarely.

It had come to Trowa's attention not too long ago that people can actually, literally, ooze sex. There was a type of scent marker unique to each person that a certain other unique person would be attracted to. Clearly, though, the smells were not detectable in the sense of orange pulp or baking cookies. They were unconsciously sucked up and processed with little genetic minders going "yes, yes, yes, reject, yes, yes, reject." Right now, this stranger was everything short of simply flooding sex and his senses were screaming a hands down, prostrate, "Yes! Thank you god! Yes!"

Trowa was drawn to him, his legs moved of their own volition dragging the rest of his body along with them. He joined the boy at the rail, but couldn't find his tongue to even whisper a word.

He could feel the stranger's attention waning and was mortified when he felt it dissipate completely. They were both looking down at the crowd now. Too full to speak.

People watching was one of Trowa's more familiar sports. He recognized the heads of those he'd seen earlier down there. Even better, he found his couch. It couldn't have been that long since he'd vacated his spot, and the empty space he'd left had already been filled by a couple seemingly driven to devour each other's face.

He was so absorbed in the alien sight that he almost didn't hear the lolita-guy speak. His voice was soft. It had a far more pleasing feel than satin to Trowa's hyper-sensitive mind. "They look like a nice couple," he'd said.

It took a moment for Trowa to realize that he was talking about the couple on the couch. Not one much for PDA, though he could grow to like it if it involved the guy to his right, he replied, "I guess, if you're into that kind of stuff."

The stranger made a small noise of agreement, "I'm not." There was a slight pause before he continued once more, "Stephen does, though."

Immediately jealousy leapt and caught Trowa's throat. "Oh," he murmured. As much as his hormones screamed, kicked, and yelled at him to jump the lolita-guy's bones, he didn't like to tangle himself up in already taken men.

More moments passed before the lolita-guy spoke again, "What is your name?"

"Trowa," was the defeated reply.

"Trowa," the stranger echoed, his tone wondering and musical. Trowa wanted to hear it again and was gladly gratified. "Trowa, what would you do if your significant other were cheating on you?"

That made Trowa turn and look at him. The lolita-guy's face betrayed nothing. It looked as if he'd been waiting for an answer for since before time began and that he already knew it. Known it for some time. But like an estimate for carpet cleaning, he wanted a second opinion.

"I'd dump him," Trowa said. "His crap too," he added as an afterthought.

"Thanks," the stranger whispered as he tilted Trowa's cheek and kissed it leaving a light glitter in his wake.

Electricity shot through Trowa at the contact and fizzled his nerves into krispies.

Before he could recover, his lolita-newly named-angel, was gliding down the stairs. Afraid of losing sight of him, Trowa leaned over the rail and followed his movements. His speed through the swaying masses was baffling. He made a direct line to the bar, got a cup of bright red punch, and then made his way to the couch.

He stood in front of them a moment, the two making-out, then he delivered a spray of staining bright red. There was a shriek, jostling, and sputtering. The jester jumped to his feet and slapped Trowa's lolita-angel smartly across the face while yelling obscenities, "You're so fucking hysterical!"

The lolita-angel's retribution was swifter than his wagging tongue delivering a heavy fist to the side of his face. It laid him flat. "Sorry for the mess," he muttered to no one in particular before making for the door.

Trowa's impulses jolted his reflexes into the utmost alertness. He hurried down the stairs after the lolita-angel barely hearing the angry wails of, "Quatre! Quatre! You fucking son of a bitch! Quatre!"

In the vast nothingness of the night outside the heavy double doors, Trowa spotted the brightness of the lolita frills.

"Quatre!" he called to the retreating figure.

Quatre stopped, and he stopped as well.

"Trowa," he hailed softly.

"Are you alright?" Trowa asked for loss of anything else to say, making his way over again, slower this time.

"I'm alright," Quatre said nodding and managing a slight smile. The left corner of his lip looked a little torn, though. There was a little blood. "Are you alright?" he quipped.

"Ofcourse I am," Trowa replied incredulously. "I'm just not so sure about you."

"I'm alright," Quatre re-asserted as Trowa came to a slow stop in front of him.

They looked at each other a moment. The angry mark on the side of Quatre's face boiling Trowa's blood.

"This party blows," Quatre laughed lightly. "Would you like to come with me and get a cup or coffee or something?"

Would I!

Trowa had also learned not too long ago that the phrase "would you like a cup of coffee" also meant "would you like some sex." That is, unless you're talking to the President of Burundi.

"If you can tolerate my company, I'd love to," Trowa answered slightly more eloquently than his wandering mind.

"I'd like it a lot," Quatre assured him and took his hand.

Trowa followed him blindly to his car.

++

They rode in silence. Not the itchy, uneasy sort, but more of the relaxed, comfortable variety.

The only time Trowa began to feel the pings of uneasiness was when they parked in the lot of a high-class apartment cluster.

Quatre got out and waited for Trowa to follow suit. He took his hand again when he was close enough.

Quatre lived on the second floor.

"Please come in," he said, even though he still held Trowa's unresisting hand.

Everything was in surprisingly good order and good taste inside for a pair of men living there. The only items that didn't seem to belong there were all the pictures of who Trowa assumed to be the jester and a few articles of trash on the well polished wood floor.

"He's such a slob," Quatre growled irritably, bending at the waist to pick up the offending pieces on his way into the living room. Trowa would have enjoyed the view if the lone picture of Quatre and his jerk-of-a-boyfriend hadn't caught his attention first.

Quatre was dressed casually in a flannel shirt and loose khakis. He really didn't look at all different from his current appearance save for the clothes. His boyfriend's arms were wrapped around his midsection like a vice. His expression was resigned, uneasiness mirrored in his limpid blue eyes.

Stephen looked like the conquering hero holding war spoils. His disgustingly handsome face pressed close to Quatre's.

Looking around, it seemed more and more like Quatre was considered an accessory to Stephen's lifestyle. He took him to parties to flaunt him when it was convenient for his ego and debased him at all other times.

"I forgot," Trowa heard Quatre say from somewhere in the other room. Moments later, his small body shimmied past him in the hall to the front door. He slid the dead bolt into place and fastened a few from-the-inside-locks-only, too, while he was at it. "Were you looking at the pictures?" he asked as he turned around.

"Yeah," Trowa admitted.

"I'm sorry about them," Quatre muttered almost as much to himself as to Trowa. "I've been meaning to take them down for months." Just as he finished saying that, he began to pull them off the walls, brushing against Trowa as he took more down. "They're an eyesore," he added, distancing himself further from Stephen.

"What happened to all the pictures of you?" Trowa asked feeling awkward.

"They're in boxes somewhere in the extra room," Quatre replied stacking the last of Stephens's pictures face-down next to the coffee table. "Not important enough for the rest of the house…Though, I can't say that I'd like to see myself anywhere but the mirror, here."

The more he talked, the more he endeared himself to Trowa's immortal devotion.

With one final picture stacked, Quatre brushed off his hands and looked at Trowa, "Still up for coffee?"

"Sure," Trowa replied still hovering in the general vicinity of the entrance hall.

"Please sit," Quatre urged him motioning towards the couch as he, himself, disappeared into the kitchen.

Trowa sat.

++

Trowa sipped black coffee, watching Quatre over the rim of the cup drink his heavily diluted version. He hadn't bothered to change out of his frilly outfit, and Trowa was dying to know more about it. It aroused an extremely perverse curiosity in him.

"Where did you get that?" he asked gesturing in the general area of Quatre's clothing.

"Get what?"

"Get the-ah…outfit," Trowa asked feeling more perverted than ever. 

"It's a hand-me-down," Quatre replied. "My sisters buy lots of these. Ever since I was a kid, every Halloween, every costume-party, it's a new dress." He smiled, a small conspirator's smile. "I think I've grown either comfortable with them or to actually like them. Every time one of them, my sisters, sends one to me, it's like Christmas all over again. They never come one at a time. More like…twenty at the least."

"You have more of those?" Trowa said wonderingly.

"Yeah," Quatre said casually with a wave of his hand. "Most are in storage, the ones that are too small or stuff like that. There is a box of them in the spare room with my photos. Did you want to see?"

"That's alright," Trowa could feel the blush creeping up his face. Quatre's light laughter didn't help much.

Then his laughter died and his smile as well. "You know…I don't do this." Before Trowa could think about what 'this' was, Quatre continued on. "I don't normally invite people over." He looked cautiously at Trowa a few feet in front of him. "I hope this doesn't sound trite when I say that I don't love Stephen. I don't even like him. I've been planning on leaving him for a long time, but, like everything else in my life…" He waved his hand around his apartment in a dismissal fashion. "I never got around to it. I think I like you Trowa, and I know that this is sudden and maybe unwanted, but I really don't want you to get the impression that you're just the rebound."

Unwanted? Since when did he even hint "unwanted"?

"I like you Quatre," he said without hesitation.

"Oh," was all Quatre said for a little while, and then timidly, "How many dates do you think would vindicate us from all scrutiny b-before, I mean, if you ever want to."

Trowa caught on, after all, it was one of the only things he'd been thinking about all night, "I'm not one for first date boinks, but, I am sorely tempted to, if you want to, to do just that."

Quatre agreed meekly sipping his drink.

It grew quiet again. Trowa glanced down at his watch. Midnight.

Quatre was saying something.

"Excuse me?" Trowa prompted.

"I was asking what music you liked. Or anything else, if it comes to mind," Quatre repeated setting down his cup.

"I like, well, mostly anything really…except for mainstream pop, rap, country, R&B…" At Quatre's soft chuckle, Trowa realized that he'd just hacked his musical spectrum in half. "…Tchaikovsky is good…"

"Tchaikovsky," Quatre echoed agreeably, smiling. "He's my favorite. Then Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and other such wonderful lovers of the art." He looked dreamy a moment before turning the conversation once again to Trowa, "What else do you like?"

"In music?" Trowa asked suddenly finding his eyes caught on Quatre's hands that were currently unlacing the mary janes.

"Anything, really, food, tv, books, comics, the stars…" Quatre replied, retying the empty shoes.

"Food, I really do eat anything," Trowa said. "T-Tv…"

Quatre had begun to untie the ribbons in the back of his lolita costume. He really didn't look like he was struggling very severely, but Trowa felt compelled to lend a helping hand anyway. The moment his fingers brushed the first bow, Quatre arched his back up to him, an innocent gesture to make his job easier, but evil in that it completely robbed him of all coherent thought.

Ribbons streamed down Quatre's back in the wake of Trowa's cautiously deft fingers. He then hesitantly pulled down the zipper that they had concealed revealing even more clothes. He dared not wonder what he was to do next. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to.

Quatre gently tilted his head, not unlike the way he did at the party, and kissed him, a butterfly's kiss that Trowa, goaded by hormonal urges, deepened.

As they leaned or fell back, depending on how one gauges speed, on the couch, Trowa made a kind of un-sexy analogy. A bulldozer on a butterfly. Go figure. But, it was true to his sentiment. He did feel the burden of his own weight on the seemingly very small, very delicate person beneath him.

Did that stop him?

Nope.

Quatre did, though.

Breathing heavily, Quatre whispered a few times, "Not here. Not the couch."

It took a while to register before Trowa raised himself up, albeit, shakily.

Quatre got to his feet surprisingly steady. Maybe it was because he'd had experience before with the enigma that is sex and Trowa hadn't. Or, perhaps he was just on a different dimension of mind and body. Maybe his brain wasn't directly connected to his genitals.

While idly channel surfing a while back, Trowa had come across a show on one of the learning channels that explained the differences between the male and female gender. Anyway, the program explained that in reality, men and women are constantly sexually aroused. It is just the mind that suppresses the sexual tendencies. Made the guy's genitalia, well, limp, and the woman something else. What exactly was it that women did? You'd never guess, hell, they'd never even guess themselves that they were really aroused twenty-four hours, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

Quatre took Trowa's hand and led him down the hall into a sparse bedroom. There, he relinquished hold of Trowa's hand and let the dress fall to his ankles, then stepped out of it. That left him with a pair of red boxers and a black form-fitting shirt. Oh, and the sheers on his legs that he decided to also remove at that time.

Trowa shrugged off his flannel over-shirt and looked at Quatre who was also looking at him.

It was a first for him too.

First time in a different sense, though.

He took Trowa's hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed his knuckles.

Doubt deterred, Trowa smiled at him.

Quatre smiled back

++

Trowa awoke, his hair askew.

Nothing fantastically unusual.

He was, though, a little disoriented in the moments he tried to recall just where exactly he was.

One other thing, as well, why was he naked?

Being a bachelor, a hopeless virgin one as well has calibrated his brain to only accept monotony.

This wasn't his bed.

Hell, this wasn't even his apartment.

And, that definitely wasn't his non-existent roommate next to him.

Had he finally gotten laid?

Suddenly, the night before came to him like a wonderful dream or daytime drama depending on the degree or romanticism in whomever one might ask.

A gentle smile spread across his face as he turned to look at Quatre. Some strange degree of maturity and peace came to him with the quelling of his wandering spirit. Something in him knew that he had reached a turning point in his life. He was going to evolve into a better person. A better person with Quatre.

As if sensing his thoughts, Quatre stirred in his sleep edging closer to him. His platinum halo of hair just as curly and wild looking as Trowa's.

Trowa looked at the bedside clock, though he didn't really need it seeing as how sun was just streaming into the room through the windows and it was a Saturday anyway. It was eight. Too early to wake up just yet.

He kissed Quatre before he fell asleep.

++

They'd throw all of Stephen's things out later.

END

Note: Any nifty trivia regarding sex was gathered from a difference of the sexes show that aired either on Discovery or TLC sometime in the last week of May or the first week of June. Oh, the "cup of coffee" thing was from Eddie Izzard's comedy…the show was either "Dressed to Kill" or "Glorious."

I hope you guys enjoyed my fic.

I'm kind of terrible at writing these things. I get all embarrassed when I'm writing anything even relatively risqué.

Anyway, I implied a lot. If anyone would like to fill in the big blank spot where the sex supposedly took place, be my guest. Please contact me first, though. I'd like to edit if that's alright…Just not write it on my own from scratch.

Thanks for reading!

e-mail: lamese@hotmail.com


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